


For The Love Club

by blanchtt



Series: 500X LEDA [1]
Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: F/F, Multiple Pairings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-08-31 01:54:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 6,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8558647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blanchtt/pseuds/blanchtt
Summary: A collection of minifics about LEDA.





	1. raised by wolves (au)

 

 

“Could you have gotten a worse job?” Sarah drawls, a joke followed by a lazy, self-satisfied smile, and Beth barely resists flicking the blunt out Sarah’s loose grasp in annoyance, the thing held lazily between two fingertips. _Detective Beth Childs_ has quite a nice ring to it, and damned if she’s going to let anything, even her own biology, get in her way of becoming the only thing she’s ever wanted to be.  

 

“She’s kind of right,” Cosima adds from the kitchen, half-apologetic. “‘Duty calls’ doesn’t really work when there’s a full moon.”

 

“Well, who else is going to clean up the mess this pack leaves behind?” Beth replies, and they both must feel some sort of guilt for whatever it is they’ve done recently (and, shit, she’ll have to check into that) because neither Sarah nor Cosima has a reply for her. Beth purses her lips, makes her way out of the living room, drops by the kitchen to find Cosima preparing something on a plate, shoving it across the countertop to where Helena sits on a barstool.

 

A stray she’s picked up in her job as a detective, Beth can’t help but find a soft spot for her, her wild hair, her crouched posture, her guarded look. However the hell she ended up in Toronto, it’s clear she hasn’t the faintest clue what a real pack can be like. And so Beth gasps Helena’s bony shoulder, squeezes out of solidarity. “Eat up, mutt. You’re too skinny.” With a smile to Cosima, she calls out, “See you all later tonight.”

 

“You cannot get me to go on another ‘fun run’!” Sarah shouts indignantly at that, and Cosima’s smart-ass reply nearly makes Beth laugh (“Sarah, what’s the point of being a werewolf if you’re going to stay indoors all night sleeping?”) because it’s pretty damned true in her opinion. Helena, almost overwhelmed by the noise and grimacing, rumbles, “Do not call me this,” but her growl lacks a bite, and Beth checks her jacket pocket for her badge, her back pockets for her keys, her holster for her gun, and heads out for her shift.

 

 


	2. traveler's tale (canon)

 

 

 

Globalization has done shit for the European Union, Katja thinks, but at least she’s able to speak with most of their genetic identicals without issue.

 

It all stems from an untraceable email and a name, which as a writer Katja just can’t leave alone, can she? It’s just too good to be true, a real-life mysery unfolding in front of her. And best of all, it’s a name she can pronounce.

 

Janika Zingler is, of course, the easiest to speak with, and so Katja catches a flight to Salzburg and meets Janika at the predetermined location, a café in the Altstadt. The mirrored face of a stranger is no doubt what convinces Janika to hand over a blood sample. But that is all Katja can offer – it’s easy enough to learn to draw blood, but doing anything else without is beyond her education. She’s a writer, not a scientist.

 

She’s in contact with another woman in Poland as well, but that genetic identical is taking forever to respond, and so thanks to Janika as well as Danielle’s quick responses, Katja packs her things after two weeks, bids Janika goodbye and good luck, and makes her way to Paris.

 

Danielle is talkative, which is worrisome. Katja is quick to ask for samples with her broken French, greatful that Janika has already briefed Danielle on everything. More drawn blood, more hair samples – anything that could be helpful goes in the heavy-duty briefcase that she hugs close to her whenever she’s forced by necessity to take it out of her hotel room’s safe.  

 

And two days after arriving in Paris, bidding Danielle to keep silent about what they’ve discussed, Katja sits on her bed, latches the clasps on the briefcase, and sits back against the headboard in thought before reaching toward her laptop, dragging it closer and opening it up.

 

Her next move is between a flight to Warsaw to meet the Polish woman, who is unsurprisingly skittish and still has not given Katja her name, and a Canadian named Beth Childs. Katja opens her email, finds a terse invitation from Beth sitting in her inbox, decides, and opens up a browser, reaching for her wallet.

 

If she were in any other scenario, she’d blow her money on some hard-earned partying. But Janika has not responded to her text since she dropped her off at the airport, which is unusual, and so instead of a rave Katja quickly purchases the soonest flight to Toronto, swallows nverously as the purchase goes through and she clicks back to Beth’s email, tells her the details of her plan.

 

 

 


	3. half-shadow (canon)

 

 

 

She’s pretty much decided that Susan Duncan’s home is creepy as hell. It contains the equipment necessary to synthesize a cure which is cool, yeah. But still – creepy as _hell_.

 

The only thing that puts Cosima at ease is Charlotte.

 

She’s an only child and hasn’t really spent a whole lot of time with kids. But meeting Charlotte is not like meeting any other child. For one, she’s a clone of a clone – it’s infinitely more improbable that she’s here and thriving than the impossibility of Cosima herself. And Charlotte is smart, on her way to becoming a little scientist herself.

 

But that doesn’t mean breakfast has to be some boring old-people food like oatmeal or whatever.

 

Cosima searches through the cabinets, opening and letting them bang shut as she moves onto the next one, stopping occasionally to reach up and place what she needs on the countertop. “Okay, so I don’t see any Soyrizo,” Cosima says cheerfully. The likelihood of that was slim to nil, so no omlette scramble for them. There is, however, ingredients for French toast.

 

The thought causes her to still momentarily, a punch to the gut. It’s stupid but understandable, especially now, that the thought of French toast (which is probably not even really _French_ ) makes her think of Delphine, and Cosima clears her throat, turns around and smiles for Charlotte because here and now is not a good time for that.

 

“French toast?” Cosima offers, and Charlotte grins, nodding, and slips out of her seat. Cosima grabs milk and eggs out of the refridgerator, places everything on the counter, and feels Charlotte siddle up to her.

 

“Can I help?” she asks, and Cosima nods, pushes a bowl and the eggs towards Charlotte and sets a pan on the burners in preparation. If being sick has taught her anything, it’s that unfortunately you have to take things one at a time. And so first comes breakfast.

 

“Of course.” Cosima holds up an egg, winks, and asks, “Wanna crack the eggs for me? I’ll show you how to do it one-handed.”

 

 

 


	4. the memory broker (au)

 

 

 

She is a light sleeper, and a restless one at that. Sarah stirs awake for no reason in particular, reaches up to rub sleep from her eyes and blink in the semi-darkness. Something about REM and natural cycles, Felix had told her once.

 

But it probably doesn’t help that she’s in a shabby hotel room, everything unfamiliar, and with the woman from the train station sleeping next to her. Or rather, faking sleep next to her. Sarah shifts onto her side, burrows against the pillow with a sigh. In the gloom she can see that Beth is too stiff, too hard, to be truly asleep, and her eyes are open, staring at nothing.

 

If she’d tried to off herself, she probably wouldn’t have an easy time sleeping just a few hours later, either. Sarah pushes herself up, swings her legs, and sits at the edge of the bed. “You want a cuppa?” she asks over her shoulder, looking back and reaching up to swipe at the hair that falls in front of her face. She’s learned it’s no use lying awake in frustration until she falls asleep again, and that probably stands for Beth, too.

 

Beth hardly moves, but she does speak. “Sure,” she murmurs listlessly, and Sarah shrugs, stands and flicks on the bedside lamp next to her side of the bed. She’s in nothing but panties, but if Beth’s got any issue with that, it’s her problem. She’s not going to trip and break her neck for some woman she just met.

 

The kitchenette’s got nothing in it except a few mugs, some little creamers, and a few tea packets. It’s a travesty but it’s not like they’ve got the best tea possible at their disposal, and so Sarah takes two mugs, fills them with water, and pops them in the microwave. She pulls them out once the water’s started bubbling, drops in the tea bags, and waits, fishes them out with a spoon once they’re ready and adds some creamer once she’s checked the expiration date.

 

The mugs are now comfortably warm in her hands as Sarah walks back to the bedroom, sits down on her side once more and reaches out to hand a mug to Beth, who’s now sitting up, back against the headboard. It’s admittedly an odd sight, to see someone who looks exactly like her, except a little more put together and a hell of a lot more tired.

 

Beth takes the tea, nods a thanks, and Sarah holds her own cup carefully as she slips back under the blankets, kicks and settles comfortably as silence settles between them. Asking if Beth’s okay is a pretty stupid idea. Clearly, she’s not. Sarah takes a sip of tea. But there’s not much else to say at a time like this. What comes out is rather, “Is there anything I can do?”

 

Slightly more useful, Sarah thinks proudly. Forward-thinking and pitiless, which, other than the suicide attempt, seems to fit Beth’s so-far brisk behavior. She looks over at Beth, watches as Beth sets her mug down on her own side table and thinks.

 

She expects a pearl of wisdom from her sharply-dressed identical, for some reason. Beth’s still got her hair up in a bun, a pretty camisole still on, and Beth – as well as the gun Sarah found, riffling through her purse as Beth showered – exudes a confidence that is comforting.

 

Instead, Beth shifts, and in the small bed they share Sarah feels a knee brush her own as Beth turns, facing Sarah’s side. She’s lucky she’s got a firm grip on her own mug because her eyes close automatically as a hand slides along the curve of her jaw, as Beth nears and slides against her, as she murmurs something that Sarah doesn’t quite catch before their lips meet.

 

The night has been one unbelievable occurrence after the other, and Sarah slumps into the kiss in surprise before breaking it, before putting her mug down as quickly as possible, and before sliding a leg over Beth, straddling her hips as hands grasp eagerly at her waist and pull her close. Whatever other clones are out there seem to be doing pretty well without a high-school drop-out in their club, and despite Beth’s offer, up until now she hasn’t been quite sure whether to stay or split tomorrow morning.

 

“I see you. I see you,” Sarah murmurs, the reply to Beth's questions seeming to calm her and her kisses that edge on frantic. Sarah trails a hand up Beth's arm slowly, soothing like she remembers someone once doing to her, and cups a shoulder, playing absently with the strap of her camisole. "I see you."

 

It's probably _some_ kind of fucked up one way or the other, but in the grand scheme of things, in the span of her own mess of a life filled with crap decisions, how bad is it, really? They're just two freaks trying to get through a _really_ shitty night.

 

 

 


	5. burning clothes in the backyard (canon)

 

 

 

She should have died in a fire. _Almost_ did, and bears the scars of it.

 

She’d been a pretty happy individual, before all this. Anyone who knew Veera Suominen before would have agreed – a nice girl, helpful, always smiling.

 

Veera grimaces, too tired and bitter and in too much pain to actually bring that motion up fully into a smile, and watches as the fire in the trashcan gains tractions as she drops the lit match in it, catches and blossoms and grows. She snorts at the sight of the tiny flames begin to lick up the side, metal certainly hot. What was it about fire that inspired flowery language? She feels woozy and nauseaous from her burn, one that cannot not be cured with basic first aid. Fire is nothing but combustion, searing and insatiable. Veera reaches to the side, grabs papers and feeds them into the fire one by one – lets pages drift down, catch, curl and warp and turn to cinders in a heartbeat. Just like she could have.

 

Getting rid of everything takes a few hours, largely because of the small size of the fire. The last thing she needs is to attract any attention, for someone to see, to realize 3MK29A is still alive and well despite their best efforts to exterminate her.

 

When the last of her things are burnt to unrecognizable ash, Veera picks up her rucksack, laptop and charger safely cushioned inside next to a roll of cash, and tips the trashcan over with the toe of her boot. She _is_ sorry for whoever’s winter cabin she’s chosen – it had to be soon after Everything and not too far away from her own now-ruined home, or it wouldn’t have looked connected – and slips out the door.

 

She narrows her eyes in the faint moonlight, tries to take in as much as she can and walks to keep her boots from crunching in the snow as she walks away into the nearby woods, and blinks away tears that come more from pain than from pity. The burn certainly requires medical attention, but there's nowhere she can go for that that might not be infiltrated. The first thing she needs is a first-aid kit, painkillers, and a decent balaclava, both for her still-smarting face and for the searing cold of winter.  Then, and only then, Veera thinks, can she find someplace to plug her laptop in and begin planning.

 

 

 


	6. careful is my middle name (au)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of the raised by wolves AU.

 

 

Being a werewolf is hella cool. She has no complaints – never had, never will.

 

The only others she’d known before moving, before starting her own life, before meeting Beth and the pack, had been her parents, both of them with their own various stages of near- or far-sightedness that meant the Niehaus home was littered with misplaced glasses and packets of single-use contacts. Sight, or lack of it, is so not an issue. She’s learned to see the world, human or wolf, through a myopic squint, and to rely on smell, on touch, on the pack.

 

And so Helena next to her jumps, shying away, at the searching touch of Cosima’s muzzle against her side, and Cosima whines an apology as they all stall at the edge  of the woods. She forgets how skittish Helena still is, and how damned long Alison takes to change - she folds her clothes, which, Cosima commends her on the neatness, but she just can't bring herself to do, too.

 

It’s not like her eyesight is _that_ bad, but it’s not twenty-twenty, either. Cosima squints, and she can see Helena just fine, except that she’s a little dull around the edges, and detail like what she’d be able to see with her glasses, like the strands of snow-white fur, or burrs stuck to Helena's haunches, are obscured, merely smudged suggestions. She gets along just _fine_ , she’s always reassured Beth. She is certainly not going to run off the edge of some cliff Wily Coyote style. But Cosima knows, is realist enough to admit, that she’s never going to lead the hunt, exactly. She just can’t fun full speed in the dark and pick up on things like tracks like the rest of them can.

 

Alison slips into view from behind a bush, chestnut-brown and easier to see than Sarah's grey or, even worse, Beth's dark brindle. She feels Sarah’s strong shoulder against her own, breaking her thought, the comforting press of rumpled fur and the hot, wet lick of a tongue on her nose, and snorts in amusement. It’s become a joke between them, Sarah sidling up next to her out of nowhere, any form, any time, and licking her. More points for the longer, the wetter, and the more public, which always manages to have Beth roll her eyes or Alison go beet-red. And so Cosima licks back, watches with up-close twenty-twenty vision as Sarah’s lips pull back in a human-like smile, baring fangs, and Cosima’s heart gives a _whoosh-swish_ thump the way it always does, any form, any time.

 

But Beth gives a bark, a let’s-move-ladies announcement, and Cosima snaps back to attention, to Alison and Helena milling around, all of them with muscles taught and anxious to run, and follows close against Sarah’s guiding touch as they all begin to follow Beth deeper into the woods.

 

The stretch, the burn, feel good as they lope through the underbrush, moonlight spilling like silver over everything. And the others are visual learners, and to each their own, so Cosima yips her excitement, knows that they're deep enough into the state park to be far, far away from human ears, and grins in amusement as Helena takes up her call, letting out a crazy-ass warbling howl. And Sarah follows, a deep bass, followed surprisingly by Alison's thin voice carrying over them all. Beth is, as usual, largely silent, but as they run and as Cosima howls in pleasure she sees Beth looks back over her shoulder mid-trot, tongue lolling, and drops back beside her, taking her turn to guide and leaving Sarah free to bolt forward, before letting out a surprisingly lively howl alongside her.

 

So, yeah. _Definitely_ no complaints.

 

 

 


	7. four apocalyptic horsemen with no horses (au)

 

 

 

 

They’re lucky Mrs. S took Beth’s gun when she did, Sarah understands, because it’s clear otherwise that tonight they’d have had something to clean up after.

 

They’re lounging in various parts of the kitchen, Mrs. S making a kettle of tea, Cosima on her laptop at the table, Helena loudly eating something by the sink, and herself leaning up against the counter, when the front door opens, shuts, soft footsteps approach, and Beth stalks back into the kitchen, looking sour.

 

Mrs. S hardly has to look over her shoulder to know who it is. The more unpredictable Beth becomes, the more predictable, somehow, her actions are. “There’s a system, dear,” Mrs. S says warmly, the kettle coming to a shrieking boil, and Beth stalks silently to the kitchen table, takes a seat near Cosima as Mrs. S pours herself a cup.

 

Sarah shifts, catches Beth’s eye and then looks away. With her track record and her own daughter currently in hiding with Felix, it’s not really her place to lecture Beth about pills and booze, is it? The noises of food being consumed stop, and Helena speaks. “System is slow,” she says thickly, tone neutral though the words favor Beth, and Mrs. S shakes her head, takes a sip of her tea.

 

“Yeah. If DYAD’s going to play dirty, why can’t we turn this biological warfare against them?” Cosima offers, and swallows around a wet, bubbling cough before continuing, waving a hand in the air. “You know, like, while I’ve still got time in this mortal realm.”

 

As hard as it is to hold out against striking DYAD down on pure adrenaline, they – a loose cannon, a mad scientist, a hungry ex-nun, and herself, like four bloody apocalyptic horsemen with no bloody horses – shouldn’t doubt Mrs. S. Sarah pushes off from the counter and begins to pace, arms crossed. She has her own plans, of course, in case Mrs. S's fail. But S has loads more connections than they all do put together, and she's willing to give S her shot at DYAD, at least before taking things into her own hands.

 

“We gotta do this right, yeah, S?” Sarah offers, throwing out her opinion as a peace offering between them all, and it says something about her place in all this, something she’s still not sure she’s comfortable with, that the others fall silent and listen. Sarah looks at Cosima, at Beth, and Helena, nods in thought before asking, "You've got something up your sleeve, don't you?"

 

But S doesn't get what pulls them all together beyond taking down DYAD, doesn't get what excludes her by default, and misses that a nod means more than just a nod, at least between sisters. 

 

"Alright. What's the plan?" Cosima asks, placated, and Mrs. S clutches her cup of tea, purses her lips, and begins speaking.

 

 

 

 

 

.

 

 

 

 


	8. back in black (au)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reagan is way better at writing Daddy Manning. Read her fics instead. This is just my tiny attempt to add to the trope.

 

 

 

She’s not one to compare exes. That's generally just a shitty thing to do anyway, but, like, when all the variables finally collide, what’s produced is a feeling, of possessing one unique thing with one unique person – some combination of love and lust, privacy and exhibitionism, hunger and satiety, to varying degrees. And it’s different, with each person.

 

But this – Sarah sucking on her collarbone careful-hard enough to leave marks as hips hitched against hers press her against the cold wall, as her own hands grasp and slide and fingers thread through Sarah’s belt loops and pull her closer – is uniquely Sarah. Grinding like teenagers in a corner of the damp basement lab, slick from the feel of Sarah’s thigh pressing up between her own and high off the soap-leather-Sarah scent of her. There is something about Sarah that simply sets her apart from the others, and Cosima’s come to realize it’s an ability to drive her wild in some slow, deep manner that takes hours to burn away.

 

Sarah breaks away, shifts, reaches up with one hand to rake through hair the threatens to fall over her eyes and, with the other, rests a hand against the wall near Cosima’s head, leaning her weight. And just like every time, no matter how her arms might seem to trap her, to the untrained eye; no matter how Sarah’s body pins her carefully against the wall, comforting-heavy; there’s always a hint of restraint there, a clear suggestion in her posture that promises as always _jus’ say stop and I’ll stop, Cos._

 

It’s why, collarbone smarting from Sarah’s teeth, their breathing both heavy between them, that Cosima lets go, fingers slipping from belt loops, and, with not one thought on her mind other than _fuck me, Sarah_ , lets fingertips trail to the button of Sarah’s jeans, grins as Sarah’s hips buck at the motion, and, despite the lack of space between them, her hand now trapped between their two bodies, she hooks fingers over the band of Sarah’s jeans, feels her knuckles brush low against Sarah's stomach, and with the twist of her wrist fists the fabric, tugs a little harder than she’s felt the need to before. Whatever it is – the wild hair, the dark eyes, the leather jacket, the tight jeans, the heavy boots - it’s certainly doing it for her. And with eyes closed, with Sarah flush against her, with mind hazy with pleasure, it slips out, rising irrepressible from some low and unknown place.

 

“ _Daddy_ ,” Cosima groans with a jerk of her own hips, because _fuck me, Sarah, please,_ and is aware vaguely of two things: that this is something that she has never once felt the need to say, and that, having said it, the word sits trembling on her lips, a breath away from being said again. 

 

And Sarah hardly misses a beat, whatever it is between them, whatever it is that exists uninterrupted and manifested in a thousand different forms, meaning that Sarah rolls with it seamlessly, that pressed close enough that Cosima can hear the slow, deep breath that Sarah takes in, can feel Sarah shifts, pushing away from the wall, and the hand that steadies her against the wall slides instead up her neck, slowly, as Sarah cups at her nape, leans forward, steals a kiss that’s soft and warm.

 

“Cos,” Sarah murmurs, and she's offered and so Sarah takes, and as a tongue seeks her own Cosima parts her lips, fingers letting go and reaching up instead to pull Sarah closer - always closer, and yet never close enough - by the lapels of her leather jacket, the material soft to the touch, well-worn. And there is Sarah's thigh between her own again, a hand on her hip steadying her, and fingers slipping through loose dreds, and Cosima swallows, knows the cerebrum regulates breathing but decides it’s a good idea to remember to do it on her own too, just in case, because her heart pounds in a way that makes her think maybe it’s forgotten what it’s supposed to do too right now. And there’s the barest of tugs against her scalp, dreds pulled taught, as Sarah makes a fist, and Cosima feels Sarah pull back and down slowly, just enough to lead if Cosima would like to follow.

 

Cosima lets her head tilt back, feels Sarah stop just short of uncomfortable, and swallows, feels the movement in a way she’s never felt it before. Despite the literal upper hand, Sarah’s body is still against her own, and she bows her head, face nuzzled against her bared neck, nosing against her jaw. When Sarah speaks it’s a question, breath hot against Cosima’s skin, and Cosima moves because _fuck me Sarah please_ , Sarah’s familiar teasing smile damned near audible as she rasps –  

 

“Can you say it again?”

 

 

 


	9. glittery gold (au)

 

 

 

If there are two words that could accurately describe her life right at this exact moment, right here, right now, sitting in Cosima’s room on a Friday night, those words would most certainly be _fuck me_.

 

The good kind of _fuck me_ and the bad kind, too. The so-far rushed and messy kisses, the exploratory touches over bras and under skirts, mean that tonight for once, with Cosima’s parents gone, they have a house to themselves and all the time in the world. Cosima’s parents, like Cosima, are too smart not to know what they’re enabling, and Sarah thanks them for it because having Mrs. S walk periodically and unsubtly up and down the hallway to ensure her bedroom door had stayed open the one time she’d tried to invite Cosima over had been a real mood-killer.

 

The thought of an entire night alone with Cosima is exciting and terrifying all at once, mostly because it’s _Cosima_ and they could not be further apart in almost all aspects of life and Sarah still doesn’t understand how her algebra tutor sees anything in her worth dating.

 

(“She’s knows you're Sarah _Manning_ , doesn’t she?” Felix had asked after Cosima had left that night, and Sarah had resisted the urge to reach out and slug him in the arm. “I mean, she’s not confusing you with some other Sarah, is she?”)

 

Because math has, unsurprisingly, been like pulling teeth – hence the tutoring. The getting along with Cosima Niehaus smartest-girl-in-school-part, not so much.

 

There was more to Cosima than met the eye, and Sarah sits back, watches Cosima try to pull up another pirated movie for them to watch – she sits crouched on her chair, chin resting on her knees and frowning in concentration, because she’s apparently taken the _all the time in the world_ part to heart. They’ve smoked a bowl, watched a couple of movies, and eaten way too much junk food, and it’s only now, the two of them sitting and debating what to watch next, that Cosima stops typing away at something on her laptop, whirls and turns to her fast enough to make her dreds slap softly against her own cheek.

 

“Dude, can I see what you look like with eyeliner?” Cosima asks cheerfully apropos of nothing, and despite the rather excellent smoky eye she has going on Sarah shrugs, a go-ahead motion that has Cosima grinning and scrambling off her chair. Cosima's pretty much a pro at eyeliner, something Sarah’s never gotten quite gotten the hang of herself.

 

(She remembers her and Felix’s first attempts at eyeliner, both of them no older than eight and hiding in the bathroom with a pen they stole from Mrs. S. “Is it even, Fe?” she'd asked, turning uncertainly away from the mirror and towards Felix, and the half-critical, half-pitying purse of his lips even then had told her that it was far from even.

 

She’d smudged her knuckles at it in frustration even as Felix had offered to help her, trying to get it off and only smearing it further in the process, and realized later that that look worked for her better than eyeliner did.)

 

Cosima grabs things off her dresser, and Sarah, sitting splay-legged with her back to Cosima’s bed, suddenly wonders what to do with her legs. But they’re clearly past modesty, and Cosima returns, kneels and scatters things on the floor (one of them being a suspiciously glittery eyeshadow palette), grins and then edges closer on her knees, and, a hand settling lightly on Sarah’s shoulder to steady herself, straddles her lap easily despite the short skirt she wears.

 

“You alright?” Cosima asks, a hint of amusement in her question, and Sarah smirks, feels Cosima slowly settle her weight on her fully, and decides she could get used to this. She reaches out, hands slipping to the small of Cosima’s back to steady her, and feels a thrill of something run through her as Cosima swallows visibly, settles back comfortably into her touch and reaches for her bottle of make-up remover.

 

(“You do know that if you break her heart Frenchie’s going to kick your arse?" Felix asks, lounging on her bed. "And I do mean that literally," he adds sharply, nodding as Sarah pulls out a shirt from her closer, holds it up for inspection, and tugs it on once it passes.

 

"That’s a chance I’m willing to take," Sarah drawls. As if that'd stop her. She turns, picks out a scuffed leather jacket and decides that it's not quite cold enough for it but throws it on anyway, just for the aesthetics. She's committed to the look, even in unseasonably warm weather.

 

"Well, then." Silence falls over the room, and Sarah sneaks a peak over her shoulder, finds Felix look distinctly away from her wardrobe change and down at a magazine in his hands. She turns back to her closet, roots around in a pile of crumpled laundry and comes up with her favorite pair of boots - scuffed, broken in, and virtually silent when sneaking about. "If she breaks yours, I suppose I’ll have to glitter bomb her or something," Felix muses, sounding put-out. "Never been one for contact sports.”

 

The idea of Felix, an avowed pacifist, doing anything to anyone almost makes her laugh out loud. But the gesture's appreciated, and Sarah sits on the floor, tugs on her boots and starts doing up the laces. "I know," she replies, because after everything they've been through together, all she knows is that it's her, Fe, and Mrs. S against the world, and you don't turn down an offer for a glitter bomb lightly. She looks up, catches him watching her, and offers a sincere smile. "Thanks, Fe.”)

 

“Just peachy,” Sarah retorts, and lets her hands slide a little lower. Despite the hour the night is still young, the Niehauses not due back until Sunday - and with Cosima watching her with dark eyes, the heaviness of the possibilities smack her hard, and Sarah grins, squeezing. “Although I could ask you the same question.”

 

“Alright, wise guy," Cosima says, but there's no bite to her words, only a hand that cradles the curve of her jaw to still her and Cosima's face up close, nose scrunched in amusement as she raises the cleansing pad half-threateningly. "Stop talking and close your eyes, or this’ll get messy fast.”

 

 

 

 


	10. pristine (pre-canon)

 

 

 

She sits with Kira in her lap, her daughter just big enough so that her head is tucked just under Sarah’s own chin, and Sarah tilts her head down, kisses the side of Kira’s head and smiles against curls that smell like warmth and fruity kid’s shampoo.

 

“You know the secret to putting bandaids on fingers?” Sarah asks, and feels more than hears Kira shake her little head, murmur a  _no_. Sarah picks up a bandaid and a pair of scissors from off the bathroom floor next to her where she’d put them, cuts a line down the middle of each side of the tiny bandaid.

 

It was a little nick, a paper cut from her homework, but Kira had come to her, found her sitting in her old room wondering what the  _fuck_  to do next with her life, and the sight of her daughter hanging timidly at the doorway, a half-smile on her face at the sight of her despite her tiny injury, had gotten her up, had given her something to  _do_.

 

“Hold out your finger, babes,” Sarah asks, and Kira does, holding up her index finger like she’s pointing at the ceiling, and Sarah smiles, reaches out with her free hand to take Kira’s wrist lightly and bring it close, to kiss the tip of her finger with a loud, theatric smack that had Kira giggling.

 

“There. All better?” Sarah asks, and slips the plastic off the bandaid, wraps it around Kira’s finger and tucks the sticky parts into place as Kira nods, as she looks up at her like she’s the fucking  _sun_.

 

Kira’s got her own room - which used to be hers, before she really screwed up her life - and Sarah knows as the hour grows late that she really should take the couch. But it’s been months since she’s seen Kira and S only watches warily from the kitchen, doesn’t tell her it’s time to leave as Sarah gets Kira upstairs and ready bed and then settles into the blankets with Kira, lets her daughter curl close, face smooshed up against her own, and falls asleep.

 

 

 


	11. handful of light (au)

 

 

 

It still cracks her up when Kira calls her JFitz. It’s Sarah and Beth’s doing – it’s always _JFitz this_ and _JFitz that_ , so of course Kira’s picked it up.

 

“Auntie JFitz?” Kira asks, and Jennifer muffles a laugh, turns with a smile and finds Kira standing next to her, a hand grasping at the edge of her t-shirt.

 

“Hey, kiddo,” she replies, and kneels down to Kira’s height. They’re standing at the edge of the river, the little campsite they’ve chosen behind them on the sandy banks, and as the default lifeguard whenever water's around, she’s kept a close eye on Kira. Luckily, they’ve chose a bend in the river, one where it slows and widens, and she’s watched Kira root around in ankle-high water, stick her hand under, come up with things and then put them back. And so Jennifer watches as Kira holds out her hand toward her, and reaches out with her own to cup it. “What have you got there?”

 

There’s wet pebbles, shiny because of the water and irresistible to kids despite being basalt and brick and common rock, and Kira produces them proudly. Jennifer takes one, _oohs_ and _ahs_ over it appropriately and turns it over in her palm. It’s a piece of quartzite and definitely the best one out of the bunch. She hands it back to Kira, who looks down at it for a moment before looking back up, before leaning in and whispering loudly –

 

“Can I keep it?”

 

And Jennifer grins, makes a show of looking around them even though no one’s watching, before reaching out, covering Kira’s hand with her own and feeling tiny fingers curl around the rock under hers. “Just don’t tell the park rangers,” she advises conspiratorially, and Kira smiles, slips the rock in her pocket quickly as she looks around too, imitating her.

 

“Alright,” Jennifer says, standing back up and putting her hands on her hips. The sun’s starting to beat down, and if she lets Kira get too pink she’ll never hear the end of it from Sarah. “You hot enough to swim yet, kiddo?” she asks, offering Kira her hand, and Kira takes it, nodding, as they wade back to shore.

 

 

 


End file.
